


Inheritance

by stilitana



Category: Hereditary (2018)
Genre: Deal with a Devil, Gen, Possession, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 16:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18855166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilitana/pseuds/stilitana
Summary: Children inherit all manner of traits from their parents. Demonic possession just happens to be one of them, in Peter's case, and it's much too late now to do anything about it.





	Inheritance

I

            The crown is placed upon his head and then a great voice roars from the northwest and then he is falling from the window, he is on the ground below the window, he is in the treehouse and wearing the crown while the voice roars on and on. Below the roar clamor bells, trumpets, cymbals, a whole unholy orchestra. He feels nothing. The sound seeks him out in every corner of him and scours him clean, the sound annihilates him, the sound is a voice roaring and the voice says, Now I am yours and you are mine and being mine and having called me you must answer, will you submit to me in return for freedom from all others?

            Or something to that effect. He thinks his nose is now twice broken. The sound is so loud he does not know what he is.

            The voice says, Listen, kid, I can tell you’ve had a long day and all, but these rituals are sort of a pain in the ass so if you don’t answer we can’t move on to the next part, just nod if you can hear me, what do you say you go to sleep for a while and when you wake up you’ll be somewhere else?

            And he thinks, Where will I be?

            And the roar says, Geez, man, does it really matter? Anywhere but here.

            So he nods and he feels something else pawing at the reigns to his mind and he lets go and the Other surges up in a joyful clattering of cymbals and then they are out of the treehouse and the night is cold and dark and as he slips below consciousness he hopes that he does not wake up.

 

II

            He wakes up on his back on the ground at daybreak. Sunlight is soft gray through the canopy of leaves overhead. It feels as though his every cell has been individually torn out, scrubbed raw with a wire brush, and then put back. That is to say, somehow both refreshed and exhausted, wrung out so thin he feels ragged and full of holes. He rolls onto his hands and knees and vomits.

            “That’ll be your body and soul not wanting to share,” says his own voice.

            He turns around and sees himself as he was in the classroom, reflected in the glass cabinet, identical except for the sneer and the oozing malice. His double is standing with his back against a tree, hands in his pockets.

            “Plus the hunger pangs,” says the double. “Think of me like an organ transplant, if that helps. Except that I can’t be rejected. Ignore me or try to get rid of me, you’ll just make yourself sick. And that’s not any fun for either of us, so let’s just not do that whole song and dance, okay?”

            “Unh,” says Peter, his gaze going glossy and unfocused. “Ohhh…”

            “You’ll need to eat something, soon. Plus engage in some ritual behavior, you know, sacrifice type stuff. I had to tap quite a bit into our energy just to get here. I’m nibbling a little on your soul right now, just to tide me over, but long term that’ll just leave you a sort of psychologically mangled husk, so let’s not let it get to that point, okay? I think you’re already well on your way there, I’d hate to make it worse.”

            “Oh, no,” says Peter, curling his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs and pressing his face into the darkness between knees and chest. He squeezes his eyes shut. He sees strangers in dark corners, body in the backseat, bodies kneeling, his mother in the air--

            “Chin up, man. I know it’s been rough going for a little while, but I’m here now. It doesn’t have to be so bad.”

            Peter thinks, I’m dead. I died falling out the window. Everything after that is just the split second hallucination you get as you die and your brain explodes with chemicals.

            “You’re not dead yet. Who knows, you might even have a long, happy life ahead of you, if we could just get through this part without any more mishaps. Peter. Look at me, Peter. You’re all alone. The people who made you alone, who did this to you, they’re looking for you, and they aren’t going to stop. I’m all you’ve got, so let me help us both.”

            Peter looks up. The double is kneeling in front of him, just a couple feet away.

            “You have to make a deal with me. There’s no other choice for either of us. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this, Peter. For you. You’re the final surviving member of your family. Do you know that that means?”

            “No,” Peter says, his voice thick and nasally. He coughs up blood and phlegm.

            The double stands and starts to pace. “I’ll run you through it quick as I can. Everybody hates a lecture, so let’s just get on the same page, save your questions, they don’t matter, the real point is that I know exactly what’s happening and you know nothing so you’ve just got to suck it up and listen. A long, long time ago, there was this couple. We’re talking way, way back, Peter, like a thousand years back. This couple conjured me, as one does, looking for what everybody’s looking for, that is, power. Conjuring, it’s a delicate thing, Peter. Used to be fun, not anymore. Imagine every time somebody called you on your cell phone, you had to pick up. Not only do you have to pick up, but you’re yanked to wherever they’re calling you from and you’re stuck there until the call ends. Not so bad, right, as long as you go your own way at the end of the call. Well, this couple, they. Well, they tricked me, Peter. Or, not tricked, so much as, I underestimated them, and they weaseled a little more commitment out of me than I ordinarily give. That’s when I got bound up with your family line, and then passed down and down, like in your genes, Peter, the same as hair color or proclivity towards certain diseases. Are you listening?”

            Peter rests his back against the trunk of a tree and watches an ant climb up a blade of grass. Sure that he is dead, a sense of calm steals over him, calm like he never knew before. He hadn’t realized how he’d lived his whole life on the verge of panic, tensed so tightly all the time, always worried what other people thought, how to be who they wanted to see, knowing he fell short. It was all over now.

            “They wanted power, wealth, arcane knowledge -- the usual stuff. But they got cocky, Peter. They thought that because they’d duped me, I belonged to them. And sure, I’m beholden to a contract same as anybody in my position, but that didn’t mean I had to take it lying down. For generations I have wreaked havoc upon your family. Along with me has come a deluge of madness, violence, ruin. You know what I’m talking about, it’s your family, you don’t have to look any further back than dear old Mom to know what I mean.”

            Peter winces. “What?”

            “I’d be rid of you Grahams right now, if those brainless lunatics who forced us together had one single spark of intellect between themselves. They bungled the ritual, Peter. Bungled it bad. They thought they could make me the master of this body, while still beholden to them, but instead they’ve made me weaker than I’ve been since this whole thing started. There’s a reason this whole process is supposed to start from birth, like it did with Charlie, although she wasn’t a good fit either, for different reasons, none of which matter. Your body wasn’t just a hollow shell for them to stuff me into, because you were still in it. They misjudged my obedience. They expected gratitude for the ‘service’ they did me in pairing us up. Fatal human fallacy, Peter -- never depend on gratitude. But even with this whole thing being totally screwed up, it doesn’t matter. You’re the last one. That means I’m almost free. The original deal was, I was bound to your family until the last of your line died a natural death. You’re the last one, which means I can’t speed things up and make you have, you know, an accident. But I don’t have to. I’ve waited this long. I can wait however long it takes you to croak, even if you take your sweet time with it.”

            “I wish you’d shut up,” Peter mumbles. “I just wanna go to sleep.”

            “I know, but stay with me. You and I need to reach an agreement. You don’t screw me over, and I won’t make your life a living hell. You think things are bad now? You’ve seen what I can do. You never met your uncle, Peter, but maybe you heard about him.”

            “I’m dead, I don’t care.”

            “Here’s the really scary part, Peter. You aren’t. Not yet. You think what just happened was the worst thing that ever happened to you, but it might not be, if you don’t do as I tell you to right now. I am. I’m the worst thing. Don’t make me prove it.”

            “I’m tired. I’m really tired.”

            “Well, you can’t sleep yet. As soon as you cut a deal with me, you can sleep.”

            “What do you want?”

            “I will not interfere overmuch with your little life. I will let you grow old in relative peace, I will not torment you and make life unbearable. I might even restore something very dear to you, and in time you might even find you’ve come to terms with me, and sleep easy again. All you have to do is promise to indulge certain appetites. It requires fuel, Peter, keeping us running, and we’ll both be pretty miserable if you’re too squeamish to provide it.”

            “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

            “Does it matter? And, most importantly, you can’t have any children. If you agree to my terms, you won’t be able to have any, ever. You won’t notice anything’s different, it won’t even hurt -- the bloodline will just stop with you. I don’t think it’s too much to ask.”

            “I don’t care. I don’t know. I can’t think.”

            “You don’t have to think, you just have to say yes. So say yes, Peter.”

            “Ok, yes.”

            “Shake on it,” said Paimon, holding out his hand.

            Peter takes his hand, his own hand, not just his any longer, never again just his.


End file.
